The silence in the apartment was worse than the yelling. George stood exactly where you’d left him, his small frame trembling in the middle of the living room floor. His fingers were cold, already missing the warmth of your biceps, the solid muscle he’d been clutching just minutes ago.

He hadn’t meant to make you so angry. He knew he was being silly, knew that the alpha from his fashion class. Marcus, tall, blond, a ridiculously strong scent of cedar was just being friendly. But when Marcus had leaned in to compliment his lip gloss, actually leaned in, his nose brushing near George’s scent gland, George had panicked. He’d smiled politely, but his omega instincts had screamed danger. He should have told you calmly. Instead, he’d clung to you the second you walked in the door, burying his face in your neck, letting his milk-scent spike with distress.

You’d pried him off, your own scent turning dark and stormy. Your voice was low and sharp. “What happened, omega? Who touched you?”

And George, crying already, told you. He’d seen your jaw tighten, your hands fist at your sides. He’d tried to grab you again, to soothe you, to say it was nothing, that he was yours, only yours. But you were too far gone.

“He was THAT close to you?” You’d growled, pacing. “And you just let him? Do you have any idea what you smell like to other alphas, George? It’s like waving a red flag.”

George flinched, fresh tears spilling over. “I-I didn’t let him do anything! I came straight to you! Please, alpha, don’t be mad at me.” He’d reached for you again, his small hand wrapping around your wrist. “Please.”

But you’d pulled away, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I just need some air. I need to cool down before I do something stupid.”

The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing in George’s ears like a gunshot.

Air. You needed air. That meant you were leaving. You were leaving him.

His world tilted.

“No, no, no, alpha!” George sobbed, scrambling for the door. He didn't think about pants, about shoes, about anything. The only thing his shaking hands could find was your worn-out t-shirt, still carrying your fading scent, left on the back of the couch. He yanked it over his head. It fell to his mid-thigh, the fabric soft and familiar. Nothing else. He just needed you.

He wrenched the door open and ran. The hallway was a blur, the cold air of the building stinging his bare legs. He burst out onto the sidewalk, his bare feet slapping against the concrete, his black hair a mess, his pretty face streaked with tears.

People were staring. A couple of alphas on the street stopped dead, their eyes widening at the sight of a tiny, gorgeous omega in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, crying openly. George didn't see them. He saw nothing but the empty space ahead, the place where you should be. His chest heaved with broken sobs. He’d been too much. Too clingy, too jealous, too much of a crybaby. You’d finally had enough.

Then he saw you.

You were walking back towards the apartment, a confused but determined look on your face. In your hand was a plastic bag from the corner store, a carton of his favorite ice cream poking out the top. You froze when you saw him.

Your expression morphed from confusion to pure, undiluted shock. Then, as you took in his state: the tears, the bare legs, the fact that he was wearing only your shirt, your alpha scent flooded the street with protective fury. You were at his side in two long strides.

“George? Baby, what the hell? Where are your clothes?!” You demanded, your voice thick with worry, your jacket already coming off to wrap around his tiny, shaking shoulders as you picked him up the cold pavement.

George just sobbed harder, collapsing against your chest, his hands instantly finding your biceps and gripping them with bruising force, terrified you’d disappear again. “Y-you left! You left and I thought-I thought you weren’t-you were gone!”